A Study in Friendship

by Galaxy1001D

It was in the spring of '81 when my acquaintance with Sherlock Holmes was still new that I was treated to a singularly unique aspect of his character. The fact that Holmes himself was unaware of this facet of his personality merely serves to make the discovery all the more satisfying.

Holmes had been good enough to allow my participation in another of his cases. The spring weather had done wonders for my recuperation and I dare say that I overestimated my physical prowess and nearly paid for that folly with my life.

Perhaps it would be more truthful to say that it was Holmes who nearly paid with his. I cannot go into details of the case since it concerns two of the most prominent families in London, but I can tell you that when Holmes had both unmasked and cornered the miscreant the villain responded by producing an antique pistol and firing it in my direction.

At the time, the poor health I had suffered since my time in Afghanistan stung my pride and I was determined to be as useful to my friend, and by extension, the public good, as much as possible. That was why I paid so close attention to my friend's moods and gave him silence when he needed quiet, gave him conversation when he need stimulation and gave him all of the assistance that I could muster without question when he asked me.

The good weather and the thrill of the chase had a peculiar effect on me. I no longer felt the injuries I had suffered during my military service and felt the strength I had boasted before the war. With a foolish daring that only youth could explain I assaulted the villain as if it was I, and not Inspector Lestrade who was paid by the public to apprehend criminals.

Somehow the little weasel managed to wriggle away from me and brandished a gun. The pistol may have been an antique but at this range there was no way he could miss, and a Minié ball would inflict a nightmarish wound that only death could ease the suffering of. That was when the unexpected happened. That was when Holmes did something that none of us could predict.

Holmes darted in front of me, right as the scoundrel pulled the trigger. To this day I thank Providence that the gun refused to fire. For a moment we all stood as still as statues, not knowing what to make of this unexpected turn of events, before Lestrade seized the little weasel and we were on him again. None of us were injured but I could see that Holmes was shaken by the experience. As for my own nerves, I had trouble walking for the next ten minutes before Holmes ushered me into a hansom and took me home.

The ride back was strangely quiet. I had been looking forward to quizzing Holmes about how he had solved the mystery and he had been no doubt relished the chance to explain to an appreciative audience, but our conversation composed of monosyllables. I am happy to report that my gratitude was expressed in some of those nonsense grunts that passed for words, but ashamed to admit they were automatic responses, with no thought or feeling from either of us.

By the time we returned to our apartment our senses had finally recovered so that thanks could be given and received with sincerity, but human nature is a strange and fickle thing. Instead of thanking Holmes for his brave and heroic gesture I found myself venting my spleen upon him.

"What in the blazes did you think you were doing, throwing yourself in front of him like that?" I roared. "You might have been killed!"

Holmes, of course, had recovered from his harrowing brush with death and had returned to his confident and somewhat arrogant self. "My dear Watson," he laughed. "That's a fine way to say thank you!"

"You could have been killed!" I hissed. "You should have been killed! If that gun would have gone off I would be reading about your death in the paper tomorrow morning!"

"But it didn't my dear fellow," he chuckled. "Besides, it was either you or me, so I made a foolish and hasty decision. It was spur of the moment, that's all."

"But why did you do it, Holmes?" I asked as I shook my head and collapsed in my chair. "Why did you do it?"

"It was because…" He stopped; his levity vanished as his brows knitted in concern. "Hum! To be honest old boy I've been trying to work that out for myself."

I shrugged in apology. "Look Holmes, I didn't mean it that way. I just saying…"

"No it's a legitimate question," he said as he shushed me before going to his desk to open a tin of tobacco. "Why did I do it?"

"Surely it was spur of the moment," I chuckled disparagingly. "There's no need to make a big case out of it. It's not like you'd have done it if you had time to think about it."

"Isn't it?" he frowned as he filled and lit his clay pipe. "I'm not so sure."

"Holmes, I was speaking rhetorically when I asked you why you did it," I explained. "I didn't really expect an answer."

"Didn't you?" the dark look on his face made me believe that we were still in danger, yet I knew that Lestrade had his man under lock and key. "I believe that a man should have a rational explanation for his actions."

"But man isn't rational," I apologized. "Surely in your cases you've noticed."

"Of course I've noticed Watson," he grunted in annoyance as he took a few puffs, "but I am a rational man. When I'm on a case, my every action is guided by logic and reason. Animal instinct is a weapon best left to my foes. When instinct causes one to commit suicidal acts it becomes cause for concern."

"Nonsense," I chided. "It's highly unlikely you'd do something like that again."

"Wouldn't I?" Was it actual worry I saw in his eyes? "I replay the events in my head and I'm convinced that if a similar situation occurs that I would."

"Really?" I didn't know what to say, let alone what to think.

"It's the strangest thing, Watson," he murmured while puffing thoughtfully on his pipe. I had seen that look when he was working on a case. "When our quarry pointed his weapon at you, it was obvious that you would not survive its discharge. I placed myself in the expected trajectory. Most queer."

"But why?"

"I can't explain it," he shrugged with some chagrin. "I was afraid. No doubt there have been occasions when I've been more afraid, but I can't seem to recall them just now. I was afraid."

"You know, most people dart out of harm's way instead of into it when they feel that way," I joked.

"Don't I know it old boy," he winked, "and yet for some reason I thought that it would be better if I received the shot than you. Most queer."

"Holmes," I said in a patient tone. "I've seen this in Afghanistan. Men would die all the time for their mates. What you did was special but hardly alarming."

"Not me, I have no friends to sacrifice myself for," he sniffed in an offhand manner. "It makes no sense for me to place your life before mine."

"No friends?" I growled in indignation. "What do you call me then?"

"My flatmate?" he guessed.

"Then why did you jump in front of me then?" I demanded.

"That's what I've been trying to fathom," he nodded as if I was agreeing with the complexity of his conundrum instead of protesting his callous treatment of me. "For some reason the thought of not having you around was disturbing, no not merely disturbing, terrifying. How queer. Why do suppose I felt that way?"

"Maybe because I'm your friend?" I suggested impertinently.

"Don't be daft, Watson," he waved his hand in a disparaging gesture. "I'm sure there must be some reason…"

"Maybe because I'm your only friend?" I suggested even more impertinently. "In the short time I've known you, I've never seen anyone come here who wasn't a client. You don't really have any friends do you?"

"None in the world, my dear boy," he said breezily as he sat down and stretched his legs. "Emotional attachments would only be an inconvenience and get in the way of my work."

I looked at him as if he had suddenly grown a second head. "An inconvenience? Holmes having friends can be a matter of survival!"

"If you need to borrow money, yes," he nodded without paying me any heed.

"So why is my loss such a blow then?" I dared him.

"Watson, I tell you I don't know," he retorted bitterly. "It makes no sense. Surely the loss of your life wouldn't inconvenience me as much as the loss of my own. I don't know what I was thinking. For most of my life I've shunned the company of others, but for some reason the very thought of the losing you fills me with anxiety."

"I suppose I should be flattered," I grumbled.

"Certainly," he nodded languidly. "No flattery is more effective than a sincere complement. You know I don't tolerate fools so by simple logic you know that you're not a fool. The fact that your loss would be so disturbing would indicate that you're quite the opposite."

"But I'm not a friend." I couldn't keep the disappointment out of my voice.

"Don't be daft man," he snorted. "What use are friendships to me? Our relationship is one of mutual convenience, that's all."

"So why are you willing to take a bullet for me?" I growled.

Holmes' countenance darkened considerably. "Something wrong with your hearing, Watson? I tell you I don't know. It appears to be a three pipe problem."

I rose out of my chair determined to flee the room so that I wouldn't have to look at my coldblooded flatmate, but sat down again as a thought occurred to me. "You're not used to people liking you, are you Holmes?"

"That's because none do," he said lazily, as if he was speaking of someone else.

"That's not true," I said defensively. "I like you."

"I like you too, Watson," he murmured, "but that doesn't mean…" He stopped and sat up in alarm. Amazement was on his face. "I like you," he repeated out loud. "It's true. I actually like you. I enjoy your company." The way he was talking you'd have thought that leprechauns had appeared bearing documented proof of their existence.

"You don't have to make it sound so strange my dear fellow," I chided. "I can be likable enough when I put my mind to it."

"You don't understand Watson," he said incredulously. "I don't like anyone! When I was a child, I could barely stand the sight of my own mother!"

"But you actually like me?" I teased. "Now you're flattering me."

"It's dashed queer," he muttered, lost in thought. "You're an agreeable companion, but why should I like you to the point of sacrificing my life for you?"

"Maybe it's because I'm your friend," I suggested. "Apparently I'm the only one you've got."

"I seem to be your friend as well," he nodded. The distress in his eyes was comical. "It's the only explanation that fits. I don't understand."

"That's alright Holmes," I assured him. "I really need a friend right now."

"Ah, then no harm done then," he nodded, his concern mixed with relief.

"No," I laughed. "No harm done at all!" Somehow I had managed to win the friendship of England's greatest misanthrope. I decided to bask in the accomplishment while I could.

As for Holmes he filled his pipe twice more that night. Some puzzles were apparently harder to solve than others.

END